Back in the pioneering days I drifted, star-struck,
To the isle of Joyce and Van the Man,
And fell among salesmen.
Portal to the picaresque -
Bagman for a swiveling boss, backlit with trophies
Above a pub in smoky Dublin.
Chaotic dreamers; commission-only desperadoes
On the run from ordinary. Late-night laughers
Trying to memorise a script.
Today, my fellow-veterans look back from Intercon or Plaza
To pin-point glory - the day the drill of language sprang
The cash-box of the world.
